


Take Me to Church

by HidetheSilverware (alexa_dean)



Series: (New) VC missing chapters [2]
Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Blasphemy, Hormone Injections, Kink, Light Dom/sub, Loustat, M/M, Murderous vampire husbands, PWP, Plot What Plot, Profanity, Reader Beware, Songspiration, VC Secret Santa 2018, blood communion, canon compliant in that I stretched the shit out of what that means, don't ask how my brain works, established canon relationship, inspired by a song, loustat is my otp, pinch-hit challenge, poor interpersonal relationship skills, post-blood communion, sacrilegious imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 12:51:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17244539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexa_dean/pseuds/HidetheSilverware
Summary: What do you give a person who has everything for Christmas? Louis has an idea Lestat isn't ready for.Pinch-hit for VC Secret Santa 2018 for Lestatdesade on Tumblr who asked for Loustat, Xmas-domestic fic and got this train wreck instead.





	Take Me to Church

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LestatDeSade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LestatDeSade/gifts).



> Title comes directly from the Hozier song. Enjoy.

             We’re twenty minutes into the cacophonous bustle and throng of merry Christmas revelling, mid Viennese waltz with Rose, when Louis takes two spinning, supplanting steps into my arms like we’ve been practicing all our years and in a syrupy New Orleans summer voice says: “Your room in ten.”

            Lingering long enough for me to catch the raw rosiness spreading over his infamously enviable bone structure. But only _just_.

                        Then, on silent cue, my wayward lover quick steps out of my orbit. Leaving his Lovelorn Prince of Fools swallowing around an imaginary chokehold to blink dumbly into white-hot thoughts of utter depravity; thoroughly taken aback. Because I’d lost him just as quickly as I had made him mine. Or vice versa (it’s always hard to tell these nights).

            My third-born is as cruel and conniving as they come. Shy, studious gentleman of soft, counterfeit sweetness to the public and something undreamt of in my bed, a nightmare creature capable of sucking out one’s unsuspecting soul through one’s all-too-eager cock. Prettily ablush throughout.

            Derailed, I stop as though nailed to the floor, only to get pummeled by twirling vampire dancers. I wave away their apologies with an apologetic, if spastic, smile of my own and excuse myself. I would have made the journey in an eye-blink if not for this or that person stopping my roundabout detour of the ballroom to curry favor.

            That is, until Cyril swoops in to my rescue with a larger than life grin and an armada of excuses for my unforeseen exit; without which I’d be unable to schedule in a tryst or two during the week. His uncanny timing always seamless enough to give the likely impression that he is working under direct orders other than my own. He is literally _The Best_ , as they say. Capitalizations and all.

            I make it to the South tower in exactly ten. Immediately undoing my cravat once through the door. I’m always overdressed for these things. I complain I overdo it for others but honestly I love it for no other reason than it brings me pleasure to be looked at favorably, to dazzle and charm my way through any room. However, when I’m with Louis, who is able to make a potato sack and manure look like it belongs on a Milan runway, I feel I have to make excuses for my vulgar showiness. Going so far as to lament, on _record_ , that I envy the ability to wear Grandpa sweaters as he does when I know I would never be caught dead in one.

            The world is unfair to scoundrels, too. Oftentimes, I feel that Louis’ middle name is “fuck you, motherfucker” the way he metaphorically fucks me every night of my immortality with his patience and his comeliness and his common fucking sense. Which may be the reason I refuse to allow him to fuck me literally. Not that he’s asked for it or that I would be at all opposed to the idea of getting fucked, in general. Just not by _him_.

            David can attest to that. And Antoine. Nicki would have told stories. Armand has hinted he knows things. It’s just that I enjoy fucking Louis more than anything, more than _everything_. It’s the one thing I will never, ever willingly live without. It strokes all of my needs (even the abstract ones), assuages all lingering insecurities and uncertainties. It’s true. Louis heals me when I wet my dick in him and word has gotten around.

            Armand has never forgiven me for manipulating the truth. Centuries ago, I told him things would never work out between us because we were both bossy bottoms (which was _partly_ true, albeit in actuality I cared not what position I took, or take, insofar as I call the shots).

Now, Louis is the walking, talking, pirouetting proof of the lie, which was why Armand stole him from me. Twice. Vengeful imp that he is. He takes rejection about as well as I do.

            Yet again, I digress, multi-tasking while off on a meandering tangent about the state of my relationships. I have stripped down to my skivvies -- my too-tighty whities. Saxx underwear: engineered for the exceptionally well-hung and athletic. No one cares to ask these things. And given this is my writing journal and I can be as unnecessarily detailed as I want on the oft chance this exchange makes it out into a public arena of some sort and I forget I want Saxx sponsorship (not for the money) just to have some prodigious part of me (aside from my face) on a billboard again (next to my hands holding the newest IPhone edition).

            I have the entire boxer-brief collection. _Including_ the floral print. I know what you’re thinking and it is. It is exactly your Grandma’s floral on a black background, which redeems it from true tackiness, in my humble opinion. Even Louis smiles when I wear them. Louis is opposed to wearing all underwear as a rule, the free-balling fiend, the surreptitious slut. But he does enjoy when I model them for him if his laughter is anything to go by. He does make an honest go at critique and I treasure it.

            Louis has the fire going. It is sweltering as only a New Orleans night can be sweltering, except we are not in New Orleans. In fact, we are an ocean and a few countries away, which is exactly the point. Louis despises cold. He isn’t built for it. Not in life or un-death. He is muscle and bones, connective tissue and vital organs, blood and blood vessels, no reasonable layer of fat on him. Let it be a lesson to anyone fostering the idea of developing an eating disorder. Fat is good for you. You need it. However little it amounts to. It keeps your muscles warm and happy. And already my skin is sticky and filmy with blood sweat. And no fucking involved!

            I’m a little dazzled by the ember brightness of the cast off light, but my raring eyes adjust to it, curiously searching what little shadow remains for signs of my errant darling. I’m never fully braced for impact no matter how I prepare. In my defense, no one would have seen this one coming. Not from Louis. Never in a million. Ha.

            The figure approaching me from the bath entry is the right height and width, but the silhouette is unmistakably hourglass and the clothes are all kinds of wrong for Louis yet the fit is flawless. This _being_ (because I have yet to make the connection) drawing near like the real threat of premature ejaculation, is the perfect Catholic school sweetheart. Only a touch awkward and fey, devoid of camp or joke unless my expression is the punchline and it ends with my baby blues widening as big as my proverbial balls.

            “You don’t like it,” Louis says, because it _is_ Louis no matter how great my disbelief. I would have liked to tell him right then that the reason for my unsmiling wordlessness is because I like it too much. And that my love is infinite. That the overall effect has been unquestionably successful because I’m stunned stupid. My brain is mush. Struggles to comprehend the mystery directly in my sightline.

            You see, Louis isn’t a creature of ambiguous gender plucked from the brink of impending manhood like Armand. You will never see Louis in a Renaissance painting, however androgynous his pretty face. The aesthetic of Louis’ body is quintessential, Spartan; a single skipped meal will show itself in the darkness of his hollows, the dips to his planes. There is nothing to suggest a woman (or a child) about it. But dressed as he is right now, no one can say “ _there goes a man_.”

            No, not at all, one will fight the urge to catcall. Because _she_ isn’t a truck stop pretty sucking on dum-dums in a crop top and daisy dukes. She is a _good_ Catholic girl on her diligent if cernuous itinerary to meet Mother Superior’s hallowed paddle, misconduct for showing “too much leg”, unfortunate result of an unexpected growth spurt in a low income household.

            Once there, bowed over a massive oak desk, all souls hush and clutch their hearts as the skirt is lifted to expose the prettiest plump bottom this side of the seediest rectory. And if I play my cards as well as Louis does, I will get an eyeful of the gilded pink lily at its heart, watch it spread in a bloodless corona around my dick.

            I deserve hell. I truly, truly do.

            Now imagine that this devout _Catholic girl_ is suddenly my beloved gentleman _Louis_. Face structurally unchanged: wide-set eyes, sly feline outline of malar bone, delicate flare of nose, perfect tear drop shape of philtrum below it. Louis perfectly glamorized because it isn’t a costume. Slim red headband in his hair. Thin, olive sweater, loose at the neck, tucked into prom-queen dream of clinched waist. ‘A’-line skirt sweeping away from long, pale, cabaret thighs with the illusion of hip; the tartan skirt isn’t meant to be a mini but Louis is leggy in _slacks_ , and tall. The stretch of skin between the hemline and the tippy-top of the pitch black over-the-knee socks span years into my lustful dreamings. And there, on the narrow swell of his nothing chest gleams a tiny gold crucifix, winking at me.

            And I’m done. I’m so done with life, because my mouth is on Louis’ heavenly pout, graciously suited for cocksucking if it weren’t so keenly homicidal on the uptake. But who am I to care for these things? Monsters have no fears, no rules. Monsters are guided (or misguided) by Love. And Love is not bound by ethics or a code of conduct -- a sense of honor. Love does what it must. It _needs_ must. And I must _have_ Louis and all permutations of him.

            A great deal of squirming takes place in my abominable hands, which have overridden the instinct to tangle in the mink-black roots of Louis’ hair, as I work my tongue in him, languor gone, reason slipping away. Seizing instead at handfuls of quivering buttock to pull him into my body, until his legs bracket my thigh and his narrow hips knock against mine own. The throb of my cock and beating heart, like a Time-bomb ticking down. Honestly I won’t ever stop crushing on Louis because that’s what this is: endless falling forever.

            “Where did you get this?” I ask, breaking the kiss on a gasp, seeing stars and planetary orbits.

            Louis is equally and appropriately dazed, rapidly blinking as though waking from sleep or a roll-over car crash concussion. His sinuous hands still poised on my naked chest. Twiggy, elegant fingers distractedly twitching in fits as though apart from him. His swollen mouth red-slicked and slutty, tongue chasing the taste of me as he sucks on his lower lip.

            Like this, this close, I’m greatly aware of the exquisiteness of his body, the wiry tension in his shoulders, the fullness of his ass, the strength in his legs. The enormous _cruelty_ of his beauty.

            “Rose,” he answers finally, somewhat indolent, chewing his lip. “Except for the stockings. _That_ I had to order and one other thing . . .”

            I mean to ask what that other thing may be but I’d rather find it on my own in due time, so instead I say, “How did you explain your peculiar taste?” And stifle a smirk.

            “I asked if she had any clothes donations for the local charity. There was plenty more, but I kept what appeared suitable to the task. I didn’t know what to get you that you don’t already own. So, I chose to indulge something more abstract. You made that comment--”

            I grimace, at once. It had been more of a threat than a request. “Oh, you mean the time in Rio when I followed you to church and molested you in the confessional and you jabbed me in the eye?”

            I was desperately trying to make light of the memory, not to excuse it, but to keep myself from momentary self-loathing. “I hadn’t gotten over the Raglan James thing,” I mutter, still withholding apology. My hands on his biceps, squeezing a little.

            “Yes. That time.”

            “Then I chided you for behaving like a prude. That fucking in a confessional was the _least_ of your sins and if you didn’t do as I said I’d bend you over a pew and spank you in front of everyone during evening mass.” I’m a truly monstrous monster. I am. I could cry. Instead, I say: “You thought I was serious,” like I wasn’t when I knew perfectly well that I would’ve, if provoked.

Besides, Louis and I weren’t fucking in the human sense. It was me taking a percentage of what I was owed in blood and harmless fondling. Away from prying eyes and David’s judgment.

            “I _did_. I take everything you say seriously,” Louis says to me, green eyes huge and aggrieved. “Don’t you know that by now? The old saying, ‘half in jest but all in seriousness.’ This applies to you all of the time, Lestat.” Hard to capture just how disconcerting and distracting I found hearing Louis’ masculine voice emitting from such an exquisitely put together girl. It’s like peeking into an alternate dimension.

            “I also said your altar boy guilt made me want you more and it was a shame you weren’t a woman so that I could keep you in a skirt always, for easy access,” at some point I should have shut up, but there are times when even I can’t believe the things I say or do and I need to confirm the event with other witnesses. More so, after the whole Memnoch debacle. Reality is shared experience after all.

            He smiles and lowers his eyes to look to the right.

            “God, I’m such an asshole,” I say finally after three broken heartbeats, meaning it and wanting to change. I would if I only could. I’d drag myself through shattered glass for him.

            “I know,” he says, preciously subdued. “I’m sorry. Too. For the same reasons,” and flushes secretly just for me, bridge of his nose and tips of his pointy ears looking humanly sunburnt and unforgivably adorable.

            I’m anguished by his quiet gentleness, his tolerance of my inexcusable behavior and my inability to stop imposing myself on him because I was -- still am -- quite undeserving of this spare, delicate creature with a heart large enough to love the monster that I am. I see it for the true gift that this is.

            What it must take for this tender being of wordless rhythms and transience – who wears his beauty like a disadvantage -- to open himself up to ridicule only to coax an unworthy smile from my equally unworthy face is beyond my comprehension. But it shouldn’t be, if I intend to make up for it because anything is statistically probable facing eternity.

            As yet, unsure of my actions, I braid my hand in his and lead him to bed. I could take us there blindfolded and hogtied, but find myself lost with indecision anyway. Months spent rehearsing our nightly courtship dance amounts to nothing. Because this is Louis, a lover I fashioned from a drunk delinquent, a moody miscreant, with my blood and my unrequited love and my misplaced longing. And yes, by sheer self-importance and no small amount of coercion. And this is his super power. The ability to turn Lestat de Lioncourt into a shivery, knock-kneed bridegroom on a virgin honeymoon with an enigmatic, pyretic glance. Skirt and black, nearly-thigh-highs unneeded but definitely appreciated.

            Oh God yes. Definitely appreciated.

            There are about ten different questions expressed in the baffled rise of his eyebrows when I take to the knee in front of him. Bed to his back. Standing there, bright and undemanding, loose black curls tumbling forth, en masse, over his shoulders, strays thwarted by a thin slip of headband, leaving his naked eyes to follow me, luminous and strange. I can barely look away, holding him in place with a blinding, full-tilt grin as I flick the wool pleats of the skirt aside and gasp.

            Louis is wearing boy-shorts, white and plain and perfect. Nothing technically seductive about them, except the fit is obnoxiously poor in the _best_ way imaginable: the leg holes ride high on his cheeks (as I rotate him this way and that). Underneath the slubby sweater fabic, I find his cock tucked under the elastic band at the hip, straining to the left, notched into the Iliac scissure. Keep working him in a crude rudimentary circle until, at last, in front of me, compressed against his pubic mound, the testicular purse.

            Soulless, breathless, mouth watering, I close my hands on his thighs, vise-like, thrusting my face forward, following that primal smell to its source, nearly shoving Louis over onto the mattress. Dizzy with the flavor and shape of my lover, suckling along the groomed hairless profile, tasting spit and blood vows, and other things that turn lethal in high doses. Here, I could spend years contemplating my sins, on my knees, offering my mouth to his shrine, until his shroud grows wet, translucent with my holy spit and the two of us heat the air into a fog, like incense, with the friction of our skin.

            At this point I realize the best thing to do is to knock him over onto the bed. And I do.

            _“Warn me!”_ he shouts, bouncing on the mattress, legs and arms akimbo and gracefully bent in perfect Pythagorean angles, and manages to look composed by crab-crawling in Golden ratios. I’m riveted by it all. The curve of his calves and points of his ankles encased in black fabric, the slivered shards of thigh and ass peeking through.

            “Where’s the fun in that?” Really? Where? Pure base need is riding me face down to the ground and he can see what it does to me.

            I’m going to fuck him. I just can’t make up my mind how to do it or in what order. The menu is too large to consider. I realize I’m frowning, when I hear:

            _“Lestat?”_

            I sigh dramatically, flinging myself after him. “I don’t know how to _have_ you,” I say frankly because nothing but honesty is deserved.

            Then, more to myself than to him: “how am I still wearing underwear?” and divest myself of the offending garment.

            I catch Louis watching me with slitted, fluttering eyes, unable to keep himself from peeping. In his defense, I do have an amazing body, courtesy of a reasonable metabolism and rigorously active mortal life and nothing pleases me more than regarding others savoring the sight of it more than I do.

            “Saw you look!” I laugh, delighted when he squashes a pillow over his face as though intending to self-suffocate.

            The moment is so beautifully tender with out-of-place innocence that I’m topping him -- straddling his dancer legs -- before either of us register what I’ve done. My dick deliciously sandwiched in his thigh gap. Not enough is said about the endurance and strength it takes to race horseback, full gallop, for the long, suicidal stretches of a professional escapist, but one glance at Louis and no words are needed. Louis had been born with a devil on his back and something to prove, unanticipated fallout from a spitefully pretty face, I’m sure.

            I shove the pillow out of the way, exposing pink cheeks and pointy princess nose, and move my hips experimentally, soaking the cloth against his perineum with wet, languid streaks of love. I kiss his lofty neck, the nearly-there chip on his chin, whisper endearments that sound like pleading. Locking us so tightly together I can barely think to breathe. Distractedly watch his heartbreaker mouth part on a sliver, whole body shivering, eyes coruscating green between flippant blinks. Morse code for _elsewhere_ , for _far_ _away_. My beloved’s body melts beneath me, lax and unvigilant.

            Something happens to him that doesn’t seem quite right when he does it. I don’t yet know what it means but I know I don’t like it. And it won’t do. I _won’t_ suffer it.

            It takes all of a millisecond to flip us over and maneuver to the bed’s edge so I’m at a forty-five to it with Louis semi jack-knifed in my lap, face pressed to the mattress, my right arm hooked under both of his scrawny elbows; tsk-ing at him. He huffs at me, obviously irritated and startled.

            One perfect gunslinger moment passes between us as we share a pregnant stare. A slow, insidious grin threatens to split my face. I can see his anger falter in disbelief, but I’m already thumbing the fabric, hooking the crotch and yanking it down roughly to hobble his knees. I knead his rump, humming in approval. His eyes say: _you wouldn’t dare._

            “You need this,” I say in my best condescending Marius impression, trying not to break character: “Trust me. It’ll be _cathartic_ for both of us.”

            This is when Louis breaks out in wild, aimless back kicks. The first open-palmed slap shocks him into stillness. Then I proceed to whack him good and full and _hard_ on his seat for the spectacular length of sixty immortal heartbeats. Louis’ abused buttocks growing bright red and glowing hotly under the abuse, mottled with the bloom of broken blood vessels. Pathetically, he tries to cover himself with long-fingered hands, but I’m too strong and have all the leverage of position. I keep going for thirty more heartbeats because I’m an overachiever. Or until my hand is on fire and I wonder if it’s possible I may have sprained something.

            Stopping to wring my hand in the air, is when I notice an unfamiliar, plaintive, half-born cry coming from Louis. His face lost in his everywhere hair. Wary, I wait for his breath to even out before letting go, thinking I’ve gone too far. Our knotted embrace uncurls, Louis recumbent over my lap in a naughty _Pieta_ or _La_ _Pieta_ gone wrong. Excruciating. He shoots a ginger hiss in my direction. Standing on wobbly foal legs, white cotton panties falling from knees to ankles. Steps out of them.

            I’m harder than I ever remember being and so is Louis for that matter and neither one of us bother to hide it. Beyond shame somehow. He’d lost the hairband in the struggle and his black hair formed a formidably ragged, fucked-out halo. In all earnestness, I pitied the comb to detangle the mess. Angrily, he smooths stranded locks away from his brow, pulling them roughly behind his ears, showing the clean harsh lines of his cheekbones, the determined dagger of his jaw. His mouth doing that thing it does when he’s unsure, underlip tucking slightly beneath the upperlip like a shy child hiding behind a mother’s skirts.

            “Come back to me, Beautiful One,” I whisper, innards unsprung for him. “Let me take care of you.”

            And then his face does something remarkable and crumbles openly into tears. Instantly, I rise to gather him into my chest by his insignificant waist, brutally injecting all my love and adoration into unrehearsed words of praise, because he must know more than anything how I feel for him now at this moment at this very second and in French.

            I suck at the tears on his cheeks with roughshod, sloppy kisses. Kissing his mouth, tiny sips at first, then deeper, hungrier, until he’s moaning, pain distant but not forgotten. And I sweep my hands over the high round of his ass underneath its plaid shelter and Louis’ hips hitch forward to get away.

            Then my calves hit the mattress and I bowl over as Louis rides me down, knees split around my slippery thighs. His gaze is slightly vacant but relaxed and he takes a vicious bite of my tongue and I allow it gladly. The kiss is deep and good and bloody and I won’t be held responsible for the noises I was well into making. More than somewhat lightheaded as I knuckle skirt fabric aside to get between his well-smacked cheeks, still feverish there. Teasing with two circling fingertips, hovering mostly with nowhere to go until he says in through my parted lips: “ _Do it.”_

            I watch his expression become dreamy when I push into him, rooting, kissing him through it because it can’t be helped or controlled. It’s what I was born to do, kiss him always and love him tragically. What chevalier quality I may have once believed to possess dissipated into chaotic oblivion the night I took him carelessly for my own to keep. Hades abducting Persephone unawares, eager to wet his teeth in something dangerous and beautiful.

            Louis is the reason people need trigger warnings. His earnestness and limitless compassion; you’d never know he’d burrowed into the meat of your heart until you’re on a literal death bed and he’s holding your hand through your last breath, weeping. It would have been nice to know what I’d be in for. Not that it would have deterred me, even upon threat of instant annihilation. I’d find a way around it. Nothing is certain in this undeath. And it isn’t like Louis and I can truly be separated anyway. We’re bound by Einstein’s laws of Spooky Action on the sub-atomic level.

            In the golden light, Louis looks eerie as he seeks completion between the hard, ridged plane of my abdomen and the urgent press of my careful digits into his body, long hair draped over one side of his face, his thumb running the generous length of my lower lip.

            It’s very possible the get-up was throwing me off my game a little. The ease in which my gentleman lover poured himself into the delicate upright mold of a young woman in short pleated fabric and slubby sweater, overlong black socks and that exquisite, bare, naked face has me by the figurative throat.

            And In his eyes, I see not lust or anger or indifference, but the purest distillation of desire and sorrow I’ve ever known. A deep abiding _longing_. Very dimly I could hear the distant skirling of a plaintive lute and roiling laughter from our immortal guests. When Louis’ breath finally shakes and shivers as he comes sticky and hot between us, I can’t remember ever feeling any happier or luckier to slick myself up with his mess, really. No, _really_. It’s like that. I’m in a bad way for him.

            Louis’ makes perfect timing because I couldn’t be bothered to separate long enough to grab the lubricant from the nightstand drawer, compelled by the violent urge ride him through the aftershocks of his orgasm. To my credit, it’s not lack of accomplishment that keeps the task clumsy, but the hardy resilience in our vampire nature. So yes, it does take a long, juddery, I’m-too-old-to-feel-this-unskilled moment. But Louis is such a considerate lover, sighing, trying his absolute best to allow entry, sore as his skin might still be. Balanced precariously, partially impaled, he has this half-amused, not-this-again, you’re-too-big, precious not-a-smile.

            “Come here, you,” I sit up, cupping the back of his skull, the balled mass of knotted knots he may end up shaving off in frustration, and touch our lips together softly like flower petals. I wish I could say I was gentle, sensitive, patient, yada, yada, but he won’t allow it. And so it never is with us.

            He gives as well as he gets. Bruising and _marry-me_ tight on my dick and my blood in his mouth. It takes on the psychotic expediency and illicit compulsion of summertime fornicators. Gracefully violent fucking is what it is. Pain keeps him present so I cheerfully fuck up into his body, relishing it.

            For me? It’s everything: wet sounds and bed sounds and clacking teeth; susurrus of skin on skin on skin on cloth. The fact that it’s _Louis_ and he’s here by choice without artifice or under threat, eyes more pupil than iris, more pitch than greenery. Eliot’s _Hollow Men_ eyes, biblical and legendary. And _mine_. For tonight. And all nights if I have to slaughter my way to have it (Rhoshamandes had it coming).

            “ _More_ ,” he says, “God, there, _there_. Hold it there. _Harder_.”

            _That_ too. The tenacious litany of mysteriously helpless demands worthy of songs and rock ballads.

            “You’re the one with the leverage,” I remind him, crossly, because there is only so much I can do between the sweetly dense burden of his ass on my lap and the mattress, teetering on the balls of my feet and the heels of my palms.

            He sizes me up with the upward slanting suggestion of an upside-down frown, unconscious of the fantastic power of his defiant expression. The intimation that the last thing I, Lestat, should be doing is complaining. Then as if to prove he’s the better man even in a barely-there-skirt (totally unnecessary), he commands me to lie back and swings one leg perilously close over my face to squat in a passive-aggressive, reverse cowgirl position. Lestat de Lioncourt suddenly unworthy of Louis de Pointe du Lac’s regard.

            Lestat feels very married to Louis when he plants himself root deep and full of promise. Best fuck of your life yet, you’ll see! Look, no hands!

            No kisses deserve mournful howls, I think between toe curls and erratic gasps, moving fabric aside to hold him open, see where he’s dainty-pink, grasping and shiny-wet. Quick glance over his shoulder to work hips in small circles, one hand shoved into my solar plexus in a wordless, _stay_. He’s using all cards against me, nothing but aces, like the cheat he is.

Shifting of weight, pressure, heat and deep, shaking cries I vaguely recognize as my own, unused in all my immortal years until now. He’s going for a quick love’em and leave’em play, assuming the heartbreak pace of my pulse until my cock becomes one big nerve inside his body where he’s brilliantly wringing out a series of serial orgasms a little too quickly.

            In all fairness, it can never be long enough for me. I love him wildly and recklessly like no other and I love a lot, which is saying something. So seeing Louis slumped over my legs, catching his breath, mouth too far from my mouth, I tease: “Say it. I was right and it was cathartic. Don’t you feel better now?”

            Dubious silence as he sits up. I’m still semi-hard, still inside; neither one of us ready to address the aftermath of unloosening just yet. We have spare linens like Louis has clothes (the ones I buy for him). Louis has taken on the personal responsibility of washing said-linens or setting them on fire. I don’t know what he does. All I know is that he bundles them up and takes them somewhere never to be seen again and that he doesn’t trust Fahreed since we both realized that we no longer needed his injections to copulate as mortals do. And that there is a probability that the semen may be viable.

            Louis has sworn me to silence under threat of withdrawing his carnal affections. The only two other vampires with situational awareness are Cyril, for certain, and possibly Thorne, who may still believe Louis and I are simply prone to enthusiastic fits of monkey business and horseplay whilst blood-sharing. Cyril the cipher is the least likely to talk under any circumstance about anything even if it means nothing. Thorne I’m unsure about.

            Anyway, I’m taking advantage of our most perfect union, luxuriating, basking in the afterglow and blind for it, wondering how quickly I can get hard again and have Louis belly down, ass up. I could offer to clean him up with my tongue but he’s still uncomfortable with the idea. I never know what to expect in my bed with him, blushing virgin and heartless nympho in turns, based on moon cycles I suppose. They say nineteen is peak sexual age for a man and I had turned twenty when Magnus plucked me from my stage. I wonder if Louis is considered over the hill already. He’s less inclined to follow his urges than I am. He must be.

            “You press your luck, my Prince,” Louis says, hand raking through hair tangles. Only Louis can make _prince_ sound derogative. “Spank me again without _my_ expressed permission and I will cut off your hands and lock them away. For a week.”

            “You said you love my hands,” I say, flicking his skirt, exposing a cheek. It didn’t sound like he _didn’t_ like it. He did cry though . . .

            “You love them on you,” I glide said-hands along his thighs, appraising them as a horse breeder might. “I suppose you will have to let me prep you with my tongue if I can’t use my fingers. Someone must collect my nocturnal emissions.”

            He gives me a puissant, narrow-eyed glance over his shoulder and I’m not sure what it means when it’s paired with the sunset glow on his cheekbones. I feel red all over and thankful for my honey tan.

            I never know why I do things only that I _have_ to. It wasn’t a smack per se, more like a love tap. The playful newly-wed kind, except there is nothing new about us, save our degenerate fucking.

He knew it was coming. He should have moved out of the way. He could have avoided it. He _chose_ not to. He knows what I’m like.

            When the pillow comes I’m not startled. But I am surprised when it keeps hitting me in the face, not once but five times in succession which meant he had pillows in both hands. I grab about with unsighted claws. He yanks, and fabric breaks: room exploding into feathers, dove grey and white.

            “You realize this is a fire hazard!” I say.

            “The feathers have been treated with _retardant_ ,” he counters, looking cute, in his disheveled, just-had-my-cherry-popped way, thoroughly outraged.

When he advances on me I clear him, diving left, however my hair does not. He snags it in his spidery Louis hands and my flight is stopped neck-snap short. Feet in air. It isn’t my best moment: I’m on my back and he’s on his side on top of me, his thigh underneath my head, my right arm and neck crushed in the circle of his arms. I’m pleasantly impressed until he ignores my tap out.

            “Apologize,” he whispers, sigh-soft, with a fang to it. Tempting. I could. But I won’t. It’s the principle. I have an image to uphold. I can’t have people think me a push over. And I had no intention of hurting him.

            I strangle out one “Cyril,” before he closes off my windpipe. It’s not like Cyril won’t hear the telepathic pulse of his name.

            I come to on a gasp, looking around. Cyril has Louis in a bear hug, Louis’ back pinned to his rumpled white shirt, both biceps trapped by Cyril’s exposed forearms. Louis’ socked toes barely scrape the floor. His head is partially turned, chin up, eyeing Cyril’s raised eyebrows.

They look at one another startled, but unafraid. Also unwary. That split second before either of them can transform their expression to receive or attack an unexpected guest. Light glints icily off Louis’ cheekbones, as he shoots me an impenetrable gaze. Still strikingly beautiful but not in the way of gods. But a gorgon. He’d sooner turn me to stone than love me.

            “Let him go,” I wave, picking myself up off the floor, groaning theatrically. Annoyed to find little white feathers in my hair and ass crack. As above, so below.

            “I think he’s going to kill you, Boss,” Cyril says like Louis isn’t in the room with us, his mouth stretched in a rueful shape. “I should take him out for a walk to cool off.”

           Louis’ eyes go comically wide, seriously affronted.

Then, flings his blind skull back into Cyril’s nose. Nailing it by sheer luck. Cyril drops Louis immediately with a curse to pinch his nostrils shut and staunch the burst of blood; falling victim as I once had to Louis’ deceitful placidity.

            The tears come before the laughter dissolves into coughing. Thinking of my beloved, in his present condition -- socks askew, sweater rumpled, bird nest hair, lovely, _lovely_ legs, looking like Marla Singer’s prettier sister -- taken out for a walk like an ill-tempered cat by Cyril, vampire of beastly proportions, handsome in a rugged survivalist way, had me wheezing.

           But the more I thought on it -- I mean really rendered it in my mind -- the less appealing I found it. I stop laughing, straightening up. Wipe my face with my bare palm.

          Cyril stares up at the ceiling, massive hand concealing his nose, hair loosened from its queue. Louis however had moved on in my hysteria. Back to the fireplace, poking it. It was the smell that alerted me. I knew. I knew. My favorite coat.

           The _only_ one of its kind.

            " _You dick!”_

            Louis smiles, not his typical smile but a rarely seen one familiar only to me, last and only surviving witness, tongue caught between his teeth as though tasting air, uncaring of anything save retribution, and says, “Va te faire enculer, Lestat,” leaving me to fish out the remains of my coat from the flames. Knowing full well I would want to save fabric samples for the tailor to later recreate, Louis piled logs over it. Even when I nudge them with my mind, the logs collapse into embers, spreading over the precious jacquard with the unbearable sense of finality. I make an unworthy sound.

           Classic Louis. Burning my shit. This time it was Cyril’s turn to laugh.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm semi sure what Louis says in French to Lestat is "Fuck you" or "Go fuck yourself." Any French speakers be sure to correct me. Marla Singer (played by Helena Bonham Carter) is Tyler Durden's (Brad Pitt) love interest in Fight Club, for anyone who doesn't know. Also, special thanks to my betas for putting up with all the handholding (@burnadette_dpdl and rebness). Also the fic [**GULFPORT**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/380591/chapters/621803) heavily influenced this fic with its constant degenerate fucking.


End file.
